I’ve always been a bra-burner for being anti anti-birthday.
People respond, mostly women, with the easy default “it’s only because you’re so young” and “wait until you hit 30/40/50 and tell me you see birthdays the same way”.
Birthdays are awesome. It means you made your impression for another year and it’s time to start re-inking your hands to grope the upcoming year. Birthday groping is totally in right now. I highly suggest it if you’re at a loss for how to celebrate.
Every year means I’m that much closer to my next “prime”. That’s just how birthdays go. We all age at the same pace, one year at a time, and that’s pretty groovy because each one holds its own opportunity for prime time. (Don’t lie, you just started doing The Running Man.)
This year marks a couple years shy of thirty* for me. I know I’ll always keep the company of people (besides my parents. der.) who are older and I’ll never not know and nurture relationships with people younger than me.
Sure there are the stereotypical indicators of what someone’s age could generally say about their level of maturity, mannerism, or life stage, but I’ve personally gone years before ever even asking how “old” a friend is. It’s just not important. (Okay maybe it was sort of important when we had to decide who would be able to legally rent the car in Burbank that one time…). I tend to urge friends and acquaintances to remember the insignificance in making a generalization about an event or instance by staking claim that whatever had happened must have been a consequence of the age of the culprit. That’s just naïve. And lazy. ::lights bra ablaze::
So I’m willing to look past the year either of us were born because…
Age is just a number, not a ruler.
How about that birthday shot from 17 years ago that I led with though, eh?!
*Year 28. Don’t hate.